


Workin' On The Night Shift

by Lasgalendil



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Brock Rumlow is so done with this shit, HYDRA Husbands, M/M, Margarita needs a margarita, Podfic Welcome, Road Trip, Spanish is abused, Steve Rogers's Motorcycle, The Winter Soldier wants some milk, Up all night to get Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-05-26 20:10:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6254206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margarita Martinez is having the worst night of her life. Her son is sick, her co-workers can’t be bothered to show up, she’s behind on rent…and to top it all off, these absolutely loco gringo, gay assassins and their Jesus-hair Jew Boy kid sidekick just won’t leave her the hell alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [3 AM](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/182122) by OAR. 



“Aw, Winter, no!”  
  
And that was how Rita’s night started, with a homeless hobo kid pissing himself in the middle of the cafe. Like, not even ironically dropping trou or drunkenly mistaking the trash can for a urinal, just, outright, letting the floodgates go still in his pants and everything.  
  
All her life Rita’d felt like the world was pissing down her back and telling her it was raining, but damn, ‘mano, when it rained, it fuckin’ _poured_.  
  
_Madre de dios…_  
  
“Shit, Asset, what the hell—“  
  
“Aw, Brock-babe, don’t start in like that, you know he can’t help it—“  
  
“I am _so not on goddamn diaper duty_ —“  
  
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” the ginger one waved. “I’ll clean him up—“  
  
Wait, the hell was this? Not one, but _three_ white guys? At three am? All surly and burly and bundled up in fuckin’ coats like it wasn’t July in Might As Well be México, Texas? Tall, Dark and Crispy, Ginger Cue Ball, and Curly McPisspants here with his discount Jesus hair. Who the fuck were these gringos? “Can I help you?” Rita asked. Goddamned Shauna, not showing up for her shift! And now here she was stuck working the overnight alone and there were not one, but three, _¡me oiste, three!_ loco homeless people in her store and one had pissed all over his pants and the display (which she’d spent all night setting up, thank you oh so very fucking much).  
  
“Goddamnit, Jack, what part of ‘lay low’ are you two idiots incapable of understanding?” the guy with the dark hair and burn scars snarled, emptying a napkin dispenser and mopping up the piss on the floor with his foot.  
  
_Gracias a Dios for small graces, I guess._  
  
Then—  
  
“Go clean it up. It fuckin’ reeks.”  
  
…and that, Rita realized, was when she went from put-upon, a bit pissed, and perhaps slightly afraid to _enfurecida_. “Excuse you?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“First you call him Ass-hat, now ‘it’?” Rita bristled, raising herself up to all five foot, three chicana inches of her height and glared down (up) her nose at this bastard. If it weren’t for the glass counter between them, she’d hand in his ass. Her kid Jaime had mental problems. El autismo. And this guy was gonna make fun? Yo, that shit ain't cool at all, ‘mano. “You say that to his face, eh? What, papi, you only hanging ‘round with him to collect the disability check? Food stamps?”  
  
“Mind your own damn business.”  
  
“Abuse of a dependent adult, that’s a reportable offense, gonna land your cracker ass in jail,” Rita was pre-law. Well, pre-pre-law, or pre-pre-pre-prelaw, whatever you called taking part-time night classes dreaming about being a lawyer and knowing you’re only gonna make it to crappy legal assistant or secretary or somethin’ while balancing two full time jobs and being a single mom and still barely making the rent…one of which was this god-awful stint as a knock-off barista at this shithole of a truck stop.  
  
“ _Mira_ , kid,” the guy scowled, accentuating the Spanish like it was a fuckin’ insult. And his eyes, ‘mano. _Aye, Dios mio, Margarita Emiliana Martinez, ¿qué haces?_ These weren’t just homeless guys. These were ex-con, criminal, really fuckin’ _peligroso_ homeless guys. “I want to go toe-to-toe with Captain fuckin’ America and his boyscout brigade, I’ll let you fuckin’ know.”  
  
“There we go, Winter! All cleaned up!”  
  
…well, okay. Yeah. One of them. The other two, Rita wasn’t so sure. Sure, they were big an’ white and male and mean looking…but it was hard to be afraid of a guy talking so loud and kind and animated to a disabled kid like he was a fuckin’ DIsney dad.  
  
But Winter (the fuck kinda name was ‘Winter’, anyways? Like, white people be crazy, but this guy was too fuckin’ old to have that sort of post-millennial indigo child mierda going on.) did not appear impressed. El Invierno, for all accounts, was drooling into his beard and his outrageous Jesus hair looked like it hadn’t been combed in weeks.  
  
…yeah, chica. Buena fuckin’ suerte getting Jaime to comb his hair, tampoco.  
  
“Let’s just get some damn coffees and get the fuck out of here,” Tall, Dark and Crispy said.  
  
“Aw, Brock-babe, we’ve been on the road for hours, and you _know_ how he gets! It’s been, what, two hours since he ate? You know his blood sugar gets low and he gets cranky.”  
  
…and, on further thought, it was hard to take dude seriously when his boyfriend just up and called him ‘babe’ in the middle of the store like ‘hey, no big deal it’s only South Texas we’re all out and loud and proud’ and Crabby “Babe” McBurnsides shot him a glare like, ‘aw, honey, no, my street cred!’  
  
Rita sniggered.  
  
Dude sighed. Deflated.  “Fine. Fine, Rollins!” He threw up his hands. “Let’s just buy the fucking _Asset_ a fucking _muffin_ and a latte and then let’s just shoot the shit in a _Starbucks_ for an hour—“  
  
Rita banged her fist down. “Yo, papi, you stop callin’ him Ass-hat!”  
  
Dude slapped both his big white meat hooks on the counter. “That’s _NOT_ WHAT I SAID!”  
  
“Whoa, whoa, Brock-babe, are you yelling at the barista? You are, aren't you? You’re yelling at the barista. You can’t do that, babe. She’s just a kid!”  
  
…Rita was twenty-three. She chewed her lip. Popped her gum. Unimpressed.  
  
“—and you’re making Winter upset,” Ginger Jack concluded.  
  
Babe just gritted his teeth. “The Asset. Is fucking. Fine.”  
  
“Fine? Look at him, you scared him! Here we go, Winter. You just ignore Uncle Brock, he’s a dick when he doesn’t have his coffee yet.”  
  
“Oh, Uncle Brock is it, now?”  
  
“Yeah, dickwad, you heard me. You’ve been demoted. Serves you right for losing your temper.”  
  
The fuck? Her head hurt.  Winter continued to stare absently at nothing. Still drooling.  
  
“Hey, kiddo? What do you want? Anything look good?”  
  
“Liquid diet, Jack.”  
  
“Aw, Brock-babe—“  
  
“You get him anything else he’ll get sick again. You know what puke does to that mask.”  
  
“Yeah, but we’ve got to wean him off it sometime. Pastries are light, should go down okay. Whadda say, bud? You wanna some coffee like Daddy? And a scone?”  
  
“Yo, ‘mano, none of my business and all—“ Rita began, thinking of Jaime and sugar and caffeine and fuckin’ car rides, which were all definite no go’s, “but you really wanna be giving _coffee_ to him? And get back on the road? Nuh-uh.”  
  
“Alright, two coffees—and a, a ,a chocolate milk? Yeah. A chocolate milk. Oh, and a scone! One of them blueberry ones. You’re gonna love this, Winter, just you wait!”  
  
“Here,” the big one—Brock?—wrenched the cap off the milk bottle. “Drink.”  
  
Winter stared.  
  
“Goddamnit, Asset! Drink!”  
  
“Papi, I told you—“  
  
“IT’S HIS FUCKING NAME!”

...huh.  
  
Wait, Winter Assit. Assit Winters? The fuck type of name—?  
  
Rita’d said it once, she’d say it twice, say it a thousand times: white folks be crazy. But that was a hell of a lot of Jesus hair. Maybe the kid was…actually Jewish? The fuck if _she_ knew any Hebrew. She’d gone to mass and Sunday School as a kid when abuelita was still alive and draggin’ her ass there, but she never could take it real seriously because even as a kid it really broke fourth fuckin’ wall that Hey-sus and his 12 vatos were all ‘Mateo, Pedro, y Juan’ and shit.  
  
“Aw, Brock-babe, you don’t gotta yell. It’s not his fault, is it, Winter? He just needs a straw, that’s all. You got any—“  
  
Wordlessly, Rita gestured to the dispenser. This guy was like, dad of the year or something.  
  
“Alright, buddy! There we go. Drink up!”  
  
And Winter absently opened his mouth, let the kinder of his uncles—? parents—? ¿quien fuckin’ sabe—? place the straw between his lips, coax him into closing his jaw, sucking down—  
  
The kid’s eyes went wide. He snatched the straw and bottle away from proffered hands, splashing milk everywhere, slurping greedily.  
  
“Hey, hey there, buddy!” Padre of the Year cried. “Slow down, you’re gonna make yourself sick—“  
  
Winter growled.  
  
…like, actually fucking _growled_. Bared his teeth and everything.  
  
_Jewboy be crazy._ Yeah, brain. Try tellin' her something she didn't already know. This night was just fuckin’ loco, 'mano, and gettin' worse by the second.  
  
“Jack?”  
  
“Yeah, Brock-babe?”  
  
“Let the Asset win.”  
  
Ginger dude just sighed. “Brock-babe, you know he’s never gonna learn if you just pacify him all the time.”  
  
“He doesn’t have to _learn,_ Jack, he just has to arrive in one fucking piece to an operational lab so we can get the Soldier back.”  
  
Rita had no idea what these two were talking about. But one thing was sure as shit: she was NOT cleaning up this mess. “Yo, papi, you want some more napkins or somethin’?” Rita raised an eyebrow at the mess.  
  
Jack beamed, Winter slurped the froth and air from the bottom of the milk bottle, and Brock-babe just sighed.  
  
“Sure, kid,” he groaned, face in his burnt hands. “Sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

So as if Padre of the Year, Worst Parent Ever, and Winter clearing her out of blueberry scones and chocolate milk and napkins after an hour long shouting match of “Velveteen, damnit, I said Velveteen!” and “Aw, Brock-babe, do you gotta?” while kiddo stuffed his face then puked it up a _nd stuffed it again with his puke_ wasn’t enough, like, not even an hour later these two dudes showed up on a motorcycle. And hombre, these guys? They weren’t from around here, _y estoy seguro._  
  
That Harley? Yeah. That shit was old school, ‘mano. But the riders—? _¿Qué?_  
  
Rita was from South Texas, okay? Big white dude revving up on a Hog in a leather jacket was one thing. But big white dude trundling in quietly in a brown leather jacket with the world’s most awful plaid and _madre de dios_ —were those fucking _khakis?_ —and sneakers riding tandem with his black husband wrapped up behind him. Well. That ain’t something you see everyday.   
  
…When did the goddamn Gas ’n Go get so high on the gay agenda, anyways?  
  
She stood. Cricked her neck. She was goddamned sick of scrubbing the floor free of Wintersick, anyways, ‘mano. She did not get paid enough for this shit.  
  
Tall, Black and _hello, handsome!_ took of his helmet, carried it under arm. The Walking Dockers Display stood for a moment, stretched, and damn if those weren’t some muy, _muy_ fine man titties hidden away under all that terrible taste in clothes. Rita just wanted to bite on them and oookay, chica, cálmate. So the whole single mom with a seven year-old autistic kid thing kinda put a damper on her sex life. Sue her.   
  
“You want something?” Tall, Dark, and Handsome asked.  
  
“You know what I like,” Dockers Display yawned, scratched his helmet-head hair, then headed for the restroom. “Be there in a minute.”  
  
Oh, ‘mano. You really don’t wanna go in there. As of yet, Rita had neither the time nor courage to tackle the shitshow Winter had made in the men’s room. Dockers scurried out not a second later, eyeing the thing like it’d personally betrayed him.   
  
“Something wrong?” Tall Dark and Handsome asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“I’m just going to—“ he flushed. “Be there in a minute.” And rapped attentively on the mujeres, called “anyone in there?” waited a polite seven seconds, then pushed in.   
  
“A caramel frappuccino, please,” Handsome said, eying the menu above her head. “And he’ll have coffee. Large. Black. Uh, as strong as you can make it.”  
  
 _…Claro que sí,_ I sure bet it is. Damnit, chica, hold it together!  
  
Dockers Display came sprinting out of the mujeres, looking utterly disgusted. Rita had the sudden, terrible thought that Winter’d pissed the walls in both of them.  
“You won’t believe what I just saw!” Dockers panted.  
  
Handsome sighed. “Oh, man. Please tell me there was no one in there.”  
  
“No, no—Sam, they’ve got a tampon machine in there!”  
  
Oh, no. Not feminine hygiene products, Rita glowered. _En serio. ¿Qué es tu problema, hombre—?_

Dark Chocolate here just shook his head. Took a sexy, sexy slurp of that iced coffee. Rita’d be happy to offer him her servicios anytime, hombre. _Qualquier cosa que quieres_. “Man, after the truck stops we’ve pissed at and the sheer amount of used condoms we’ve seen, didn’t think this was gonna be an issue.”  
  
“My mother was a _nurse_ , Sam, and an abortionist,” Dockers rolled his eyes. “In the era before birth control was even legal. So no, it’s not an issue.”   
  
Oookay, then. Roe v. What in the world—?  
  
“So what’s the problem?”  
  
“They’re—they’re charging money!” Dockers exclaimed passionately. “As if women ask to menstruate! I don’t have to pay for toilet paper, do I? So why—“  
  
Pause.  
  
“Yo, Papí, this guy even real—?” Rita gaped. Handsome burst out into an absolutamente sinful chuckles. Hey there, sunshine. _¿Qué haces luego?_  
  
“Why are you laughing?” Dockers stamped his foot. “This is serious!”  
  
“You—you really never stop, do you?” Chocolate Cake said with a delicious grin.  
  
“Stop what?” Social Justice Warrior McDad Pants said.  
  
Creamy Fudgsicle eyed him in a slow, suave once over. “That.”  
  
“You literally just gestured to all of me,” Dadpants harumphed.  
  
But Hersheys Kiss Me Ahorita, ‘Mano only groaned. “Man, I so knew letting you watch _How To Train Your Dragon_ was gonna end poorly for me.”  
  
Tall? Guapos? Sassy potential gay babysitter duo who loved Disney? Dios mio she was only twenty-three, did she just dream herself into a _mom porno—_? ‘Cause be honest, now, chica, if Mighty Fine Like an Aged Wine here and Dadpants Be Damned That Ass wanted to get it on right here, right now in her terrible excuse for a coffee shop, well.  Rita’d clean Wintersick off the floor every night _para toda la vida_ for the chance to see that shit.


End file.
